Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Logan shifted himself into the church doorway, but it wasn’t any drier there. ‘So, Bill, what do you hear about Kirstin Rattray?’

A shrug. ‘There something in it for me? Sammy Wilson says he’s getting eighty quid for info about who’s supplying Klingon and Gerbil.’

Eighty quid? At this rate he’d be on more than Logan.

‘Said it was top secret. Think he told everyone.’

Because Sammy Wilson was an idiot.

‘Do you know anything, or don’t you?’

‘Do you a deal, I’ll undercut Sammy: let’s call it sixty quid?’

Rain lashed the Big Car as Tufty took it across the bridge and into Macduff. ‘Get the feeling we’re piddling in the wind on this one, Sarge.’

‘Probably.’

‘Seven druggies, and all we know for sure is that Stinky Sammy Wilson is a useless lying wee sod. Which we kinda knew to begin with.’

That and the fact someone had a damn good go at battering Kirstin Rattray to death.

Outside, the North Sea hacked at the bay with curled white claws.

OK, so she’d clyped on Klingon and Gerbil, but that didn’t mean whoever attacked her had something to do with Operation Troposphere. Half the shopkeepers in Banff and Macduff would probably queue up to have a go. But maybe not with a crowbar.

Still, it wasn’t as if they were making much headway here, was it? And given the way things had been going lately, it might not be such a bad idea to cover his own arse for a change.

Logan twisted his Airwave free of its holder. Rubbed his thumb across the face of the buttons. He poked a shoulder number into the keypad. Pressed the talk button. ‘Shire Uniform Seven for DI Porter, safe to talk?’

Tufty pulled a face. ‘Who’s Porter?’

‘Runs the investigation into Klingon and Gerbil for that nasty wee-’

‘Hello?’ Her voice crackled out of the handset. ‘Who is this?’

Here we go. ‘It’s Sergeant McRae in Banff.’

‘This better be important, Sergeant, I’m right in the middle of something here.’

A couple of drunks weaved their way along the pavement, arms wrapped around each other’s sodden shoulders, ignoring the howling wind and battering rain.

‘I know I’m supposed to stay away from Operation Troposphere, but before you set your boss on me, there’s something you need to know.’

‘Sergeant McRae, I think Detective Chief Inspector McInnes was very clear about this.’

‘I’m not interfering, I’m passing on information. Kirstin Rattray — she gave us the nod about Colin Spinney and Kevin McEwan in the first place. She’s turned up at Elgin A-and-E. Someone’s had a go at beating her to death.’

‘And you think our Candy Man found out this Rattray woman was clyping on him and decided to shut her up.’

‘Might be. Or it might be unrelated. Either way, I thought you should know.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.’

Logan peered at the Airwave’s screen. She’d disconnected. ‘My sodding pleasure.’

Tufty sucked at his teeth. ‘So … This means we’re done spinning druggies?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Come on, I didn’t do nothing.’ The words clambered their way out of a mouth that looked as if it hadn’t seen a toothbrush since puberty. ‘This is harassment.’ She’d dragged her hair back from her face with a couple of elastic bands, hard enough to pull her eyes out of shape. A hand reached down and scratched the underside of one buttock, poking out below the hem of an unbelievably short black skirt. No tights, just ice-cream skin, flecked with little red spots. A blue streak of varicose veins. Low-cut top showing off a stretch of ribby cleavage.

At least it was relatively sheltered here, in a little alleyway down the side of the post office, opposite the public car park where they’d found her.

Logan leaned against the rough stone wall. ‘It’s OK, Abby, want to ask you a couple of questions, that’s all.’

She eyed Tufty like a dying snake. ‘You’re no’ searching us?’

‘Would you like us to?’

She shrugged one shoulder. ‘What questions?’

‘What have you heard about Kirstin Rattray?’

‘That slag? Wouldn’t pee on her if she was on fire.’

‘Yeah, but would you try to beat the flames out with a crowbar?’

Abby’s mouth clicked shut. She looked away. ‘Didn’t mean nothing. Was only …’ She picked at her fingernails. ‘Not saying she wouldn’t deserve it, like. Doing what she did.’

Logan gave her a quick loom. ‘And what was that?’

‘Oh, come on, everyone knows she’s shagging Judy Webster’s husband.’ Abby folded her arms across her bony chest. ‘You don’t shag someone else’s man. You just don’t. It’s against the sisterhood, you know?’

Logan stared at her.

Colour bloomed across her pale cheeks. ‘It’s not the same . This is business.’

‘Go home. No one’s going to be kerb-crawling in this anyway.’

Abby stuck her nose in the air and clacked away on her too-high heels, staggering and lurching as she walked out of the alley and into the wind.

Tufty blew out a breath. ‘Points for self-awareness?’

Logan shook his head. ‘Might as well call it for tonight. Either no one’s got a clue who attacked Kirstin, or they’re all too scared to talk. Probably have to sit on our thumbs till she wakes up to find out.’ Assuming she ever did.

They marched back to the Big Car, where the wind tried to haul the door out of Logan’s hand. He climbed inside and slammed it shut again.

It wasn’t his fault. It really wasn’t. Kirstin Rattray had been involved with dodgy people for years, sooner or later one of them was going to do something horrible. That’s the way drug culture worked. Nothing to do with Logan.

So why did it feel as if something sharp and cold was grinding away deep inside him, filling his stomach with gravel and broken glass?

Maybe DI Porter would have more luck coming up with something. Hope so, anyway.

Tufty got in behind the wheel. Checked his watch. ‘Quarter past ten. Back to the station for an early elevenses?’

‘First we do a drift-by of Rundle Avenue. Keep Frankie Ferris’s customers too scared to buy his wares. Then elevenses.’

Wind shook the Big Car as Tufty took them down the hill, past a couple of boarded-up houses, and out onto the harbour front. A couple of fishing boats bobbed in their berths, lights glimmering. More lights off in the distance — probably offshore supply boats, riding out the storm.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Bash away.’

‘Got a report of someone breaking into one of the warehouses down at Macduff harbour. You’re not far, right?’

So much for elevenses. ‘OK, we’re on our way.’

‘Anything?’

Tufty slowed the Big Car down to a crawl as they made another circuit of the harbour.

It wasn’t exactly home to a huge fleet. Ten large fishing boats were tied up to the docks, most streaked with rust along the side where the nets were hauled in. Some nearly new, others that looked as if they could’ve fought in the Cod War. All bathed in the waxy glow of the harbour’s lights.

Logan poked the ‘LEFT ALLEY’ button, and the side spotlight lanced out into the gap between two warehouses, illuminating a stack of yellow fish boxes.

‘We’re wasting our time, aren’t we, Sarge?’

‘Looks like it. Five more minutes, and back to the station.’

Another warehouse — breezeblocks on the bottom floor, with corrugated metal above painted a dusty orange. The spotlight shone back from the lower windows, glittered in the upper ones.